Morceaux
by Thistle of Liberty
Summary: The pieces forming the lives of everyone's favourite musketeers. Warning: Some chapters may contains slash. IX - The difficulty of accepting comfort. X - D'Artagnan and Aramis share a meal. XI - Aramis is sentimental.
1. Fencing

Thrust. Parry. Riposte. The moves came easily and automatically, each response determined long before. There were no surprises in this calm sort of fencing, not yet anyways. However, Aramis knew that Athos could at any time leave the habitual patterns of expertly coordinated moves and make a wild, yet precise, sally that would sear through Aramis' defence and have him defeated. At those times there was something almost frighteningly ferocious in Athos' eyes. Then, when the point of his sword was at Aramis' throat and he had the other man's complete attention, he would smile wryly and lightly tell him to pay more attention. Aramis would stand completely still, stiffly, until Athos removed his sword and Aramis could relax once again.

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_A/N: This is the first in a series of drabblish fics without any real connection, except that most will center around Aramis and Athos and that most will contain no d'Artagnan._

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	2. Teasing

It pleased Porthos greatly to embarrass his younger friend. The soon-to-be priest, if you believed his talk of priesthood, would blush slightly and direct his gaze to his feet. Then he would act affronted for a while, until he either forgot about the affront or until something in Porthos' teasing hit a nerve and he fired up, often threatening to take things outside. Porthos would sometimes fire up himself and they would both rise from their seats and were often only moments away from drawing their swords when Athos' voice cut through the air as smoothly as cold steel, sternly reminding them that friends did not duel each other. Both would then sit down again, grumbling at each other, until it was all forgotten and Porthos made some teasing remark about Aramis' latest acquaintance.

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	3. Wine

To Athos, wine was what made the long nights of Paris bearable. To his friends it made them amusing. That was the difference. Athos would never drink for amusement; he considered the pastime far too serious to be amused by it. No, to Athos, wine was a something entirely different. It was what cured him from long hours of introspection and yet spared him the demand of company. He didn't drink to drown his sorrows, he drank to dull them. Yet the wine rarely did anything but blur them. And blurred sorrows were no better than clear ones.

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	4. Children

Aramis, Athos reflected, looked unnervingly much like a child when he slept. With his normally carefully groomed locks of raven hair tussled by sleep and his pale limbs scattered over the bed, intervened in sheets and blankets alike he made the picture of a beautiful child. Next to D'Artagnan, with the even younger man's scare crow like build and thin moustache, he looked like a cherub who had by accident fallen asleep next to a boy playing at being a man. D'Artagnan, Athos knew, would despise being called a child and Aramis would despise being grouped with D'Artagnan.  
That was what the two youngest members of the little group were, though. Children. D'Artagnan was brash and bold, an unruly boy at the very verge of becoming a young man. And Aramis. Aramis, so cold and distant. So tied up in his own world of complex reasoning and puzzles that in the end, when he entered the real world, he was nothing but a child. Both of them, children.

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	5. Affection

_Warning: This chapter contains implied slash, i.e. a sexual relationship between two males, but it is very subtle and if you are not into slash you can easily pretend it's not there._

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Athos bent forward to reach the glass of wine on the table in front of him. It was a delicate operation, mainly because of the young man sitting in his lap. Aramis, who was currently engaged in nibbling on Athos' moustache, uttered an indignant, and, to tell the truth, incoherent, protest. Athos habitually ignored it and, after successfully having recovered his wine, leant back in the chair. Looking more like a curious cat than a musketeer in the King's service, Aramis peered down into the glass. He frowned a moment before experimentally sticking out his tongue and dipping it in the dark red fluid. He made a sound of appreciation.

"Wine", he said, his voice more than a little slurred.

"I know", Athos replied, for once more sober than his friend. Aramis might not drink often, but when he drank he did it properly. With a smile on his handsome face Aramis tilted his head back, so that it was resting on the older man's shoulder. Athos took a deep gulp from the glass in his hand. The wine was good, surprisingly so considering the sort of place they were in. And the people there, of course. Mainly poor workers, one or two groups of soldiers and an array of women. All of whom were throwing jealous looks at Athos. He had no doubt that most of them would want Aramis in their laps, and probably considered it a waste that the cold-looking musketeer would have such a pretty man at his disposal when he seemed utterly uninterested in him. Which he was. More than uninterested; annoyed. Athos was the first to admit that Aramis would tempt the Virgin Mary herself with his angelic face and lean body, charming manners and wit; _when he was sober_. When he was drunk he was nuisance.

Athos had no illusions concerning the young man's innocence and few concerning his own, but when Aramis started pressing close to him and whispering love poetry in his ear with heated breath even the marble-like Athos was embarrassed. Aramis did not like Athos in _that_ way. At least, Athos thought he didn't. You never knew, though.

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	6. Opinions

_**Warning**: This is slash!_

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"Now, Aramis", Athos said solemnly, pointing at his companion with a lean finger. "When you become pope I expect you to rid the world of this ridiculous ban on sodomy. Understood?"

"It shall be as you say, oh mighty Athos", Aramis drawled in reply.

"It had better be, or I shall be most vexed", the older musketeer said, emphasising this severe warning by pouring what remained of a wine bottle's content down his throat.

"Just tell me, my infinite source of profound wisdom, why you wish this? Is the motive theologically originated or of a more, eh..." Aramis hesitated and waved his slender hand in the air as if trying to catch the word that was eluding him, "personal nature?"

"I would not describe it as "theological"", Athos began, "for it is not founded on the study of God, and as you know this is the innermost core of a theological argument, but rather on the study of man."

"How so? For the church's policies must be based on the perceived will of God, since it is but the vessel in which God's truths are preserved for the masses, and the basis for removing a ban must therefore be theological, that is; deriving from the study of God."

"My opinion on the opinion of God is founded on a study of the scriptures and my perception of God's nature", Athos began his explanation but interrupted himself to down yet another cup of wine, "However, my opinion on the church's opinion is based on a study of the church and the nature of man."

"Why?" Aramis inquired curiously, leaning forwards, "The church's opinion should reflect God's opinion and therefore no other study than that of God is necessary."

"The church's opinion should reflect that of their perception of God's opinion, since it cannot really _know_ His opinions, and that they have banned sodomy shows only that we disagree on God's opinion. If I think it should allow sodomy I disagree with its opinion on the opinions of God and this disagreement is then entirely unconnected to the de facto opinions of God, and it then follows that the argument used in the disagreement must derive from the study of man and not that of God."

"I am not sure I agree with you, because the church is obliged to reflect the true opinions of God and if one can show that one's perception is the correct one it is consequently obliged to adjust its policies accordingly and the argument should therefore be a theological one, but never mind; let us assume, for the sake of the argument, that you are correct. What is then this argument, based on the study of the nature of man?"

"The guiding principle is simple", Athos stated and uncorked the fifth bottle of wine that evening, "namely that mankind in general is distrustful of contradictions, especially self contradiction. This is shown by the constant search for truth; for truth is the only concept that makes contradictions impossible. Do you grant me this premise?"

"I do", Aramis agreed after some consideration, "at least for now."

"Good. Now; the church strives to keep, or in some cases gain, the confidence of mankind in general, correct?" Athos paused a moment to make sure Aramis accepted this proposition. "And, as I have shown, contradictions lead to decreased confidence. Thus, the church must strive to eliminate any potential contradictions within itself. Are we agreed?"

"Yes; if I accept your premises that is indeed the logical conclusion. Continue, please."

"I can then present you with the argument for the allowing of sodomy", Athos pompously declared, "If you as a pope kept the ban on sodomy in place the public's confidence in the church would decrease."

"Granted", Aramis said, a deep blush gracing his cheeks, "But a contradiction has two parts; why should I not remove the other?"

Athos smiled devilishly. "Because, my dear Aramis, that one is much more pleasurable."

"True", Aramis conceded, though his blush deepened slightly, "But as we agreed the church's first duty is to reflect the opinion's of God, and if He is indeed opposed to sodomy it would be my duty to get rid of the more... eh, pleasurable part of the contradiction."

"But we then must return to the reasoning that we can only discuss the perception of God's opinion, and that these discussion must be based on the study of man, since they are unconnected to God", Athos said casually and put his wine bottle down to move closer to Aramis and lean in very close to him. "And I am prepared to make a very close and thorough study as to be able to present you with the most convincing argument."

Aramis gulped. "Might I suggest you start the study now? So that you have as much time as possible..."

"Well, it is best conducted in private..." Athos said and leant back again with a shrug, "so I think it must wait."

"I am sure that if we retire to my humble residence Bazin would not mind leaving us at all; it would after all be in the interests of the church", Aramis hurriedly reassured his companion.

"You are right, as always, M. l'abbé", Athos mumbled and rose, "Let us hurry to commence our studies."

"You speak with all the wisdom of his Holiness himself", Aramis replied and rose too, gesturing for the barmaid to ask payment of d'Artagnan and Porthos who were gambling away their wages at a nearby table, "Let us go."

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	7. Darkness

_The product of the best method for writing pointless drabbles. Namely, turning on iTunes on shuffle and waiting until a song strikes a well of inspiration. This one is __**I see a darkness**__ with Johnny Cash. _

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I see a darkness. You don't see it, you refuse to see it. No matter how many times I tell you of the darkness threatening to suffocate me every moment you laugh it away and put it down to drunken melancholy. You never have believed that there is darkness within me. Certainly not the deep, consuming darkness I am so very aware of every moment of my life. But I know how to make you realise that it is not my imagination. I know what to tell you to make you believe. I won't tell you, though. Because deep inside I cherish the knowledge that you don't condemn me. And I am not sure that I could take your condemnation, your contempt. For the day you turn away with scorn in your eyes, not daring to meet my eyes for fear of what sordidness you might see there, my hope will be forever crushed. The hope that you can save me from this darkness.

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	8. Belonging

_This one is __**Guide me home**__ with Freddie Mercury._

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Aramis was no longer sure what to do. It had been so easy before, years ago when he had been young and naive. There had been his mother first, then the church. Never anything to question or consider; the course of his life had been lain out like a neat row of individuals and events. His mind had rebelled against it sometimes, of course. It had detested the narrowness of that path, cursed whoever had put it before him. And then it had all changed. The neat path had been thrown away, the careful planning disdained and instead he had donned the uncertain fate of a musketeer. The place in the world that he and his patrons had carefully prepared for him had disappeared, instead was only a cruel and ruthless world where he had to create his own place. But that was not the problem; he had the strength of will, the cunning and the influence needed to do that. The problem was that he wasn't sure where he wanted his place. _Guide me to my home, where I belong_, he prayed. _Who can save me, lead me to my destiny?_ Nobody, or perhaps anybody. What he needed was a sign; something to show him which way to thread. He wanted to feel at home, he wanted the safety of knowing what lay in the future. He wanted to be able to plan ahead, to prepare for whatever life he was going to lead. He did not want to drift around the world like a planet without an orbit nor did he want to spend his days uncertain of what he would be the following month. He was tired of being a priest dressed in the uniform of a musketeer. He was tired of the life he led. _How can I go on this way?_

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_The text in italics is quotes from the song. Thank you for reading and please leave a review. _


	9. Comfort

_Based on prompts by GaaraPwnsSasuke at deviantArt. Prompt 25: Hold me_

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He curled up, looking like a child trying to hide, and buried his face in the fabric of his velvet hose. He had his back against the wall, and his behind on the wooden floor. Soft words could be heard coming from his trembling lips. They were prayers. A knock broke the silence. The curled up man showed no sign of hearing it. His body was shaking desperately, reflecting the haunted franticness of his thoughts. Another brisk knock was heard and this too was ignored. A strange sensation, akin to nausea, was threatening to suffocate him. He gasped raggedly and fought to control his frighteningly un-even breathing. The door opened and he heard footsteps approaching him. He sensed more than saw or heard someone crouching in front him. Athos, of course. Who else? A hand was placed on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"What's the matter?" the musketeer asked. Aramis looked up, regarding Athos's blurred contours for a tense moment. He considered screaming. Athos's face held nothing of the wry cynicism it usually sported, when not completely occupied by studies in despair, and the look in the man's hard eyes could best be described as _kind_. He wouldn't scream after all. He considered what to say. All of a sudden forming words and then uttering them seemed far too great a challenge. He shrugged. "Just hold me", he thought. "Just hold me." Athos didn't understand and the puzzlement in his eyes grew. Aramis just looked away, unable to face the so easily accessible comfort. Because he could never take it. To be held, to be comforted, to have his tears soothed away was a dream. He could never accept that, even when offered. Athos gaze lingered a moment longer on him.

"Will you be all right?" he asked. Aramis nodded mutely. Athos seemed to hesitate. Then he rose, allowing his hand to stroke Aramis's bowed head softly, before turning to leave. In the doorway, he turned.

"I am downstairs if you need me" he said. Comfort. Right there, offered so readily. Two simple words and his loneliness could be cried away in the arms of Athos. Two words and he wouldn't be sitting on his own trying to control his frantic sobs. Hold me. Why he couldn't say them was beyond him.


	10. Spinach

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan tentatively said, "You do know that this is disgusting, right?"

The man spoken to looked up, a hint of some unidentified emotion quickly crossing his face.

"My dear d'Artagnan", he said admonishingly, "It took Bazin several hours to prepare this dish, and besides it is quite healthy."

"Aramis", d'Artagnan said forcefully and held up a spoon of the dish for his companion to observe. He tipped the spoon to let the contents, a slimy green in colour, fall down onto the plate again. "It is green."

"I know", Aramis replied and smiled sweetly. "Refreshing, is it not?"

"It is not the word that first came to my mind..." d'Artagnan mumbled but dutifully swallowed another bite of the affronting hash. He grimaced exaggeratedly and was met with an eye-roll from Aramis.

"Really, d'Artagnan", he said, "it is not that bad, once you get used to it."

"Why would I desire to get used to it?"

Aramis glared. "Because it is, as I believe I mentioned, healthy and besides good for your spiritual well being."

"Rubbish."

"No, it isn't. As we can read in..."

D'Artagnan un-ceremoniously interrupted him before he had time to start on any longer lecture on the more obscure parts of the scriptures.

"For God's sake, Aramis!" he cried. "It's spinach!"

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	11. Sentimental

_A/N: Another prompt, "Sentimental". Takes place during Twenty Years After._

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Aramis stood gazing out over the field. His slender fingers tapped against the tent beside him. England was not so different to France, after all. Except one thing of course.

"What are you thinking?" the voice of Athos came from behind him.

"Nothing…", he replied. "I just miss Porthos and d'Artagnan."

"It has been twenty years, and you miss them now?"

"Twenty years in a monastery. I was happy, Athos. As happy as I can be."

"But not anymore?" Athos walked up to stand next to his friend. Aramis shrugged.

"How could I be?" he asked. "There were always at least three of us. I mean no offense, count, but this style of life can satisfy me no longer."

"And it would, if d'Artagnan and Porthos were with us?"

"Hardly. But if only they were here it would be like for a while being back in the old days."

"The same days you left?" Athos countered. "You wanted to leave the musketeers, d'Herblay."

"Yes, I did. But now I realise that I wanted to remain as well."

"You ask too much of the world, Aramis. You cannot both leave and remain."

"Which is why I doubt that I am suited for this world."

Athos's head whipped around and he regarded Aramis sharply for a while.

"You should not speak like that", he admonished. "This is the world you have been born into. Do you mean to question the wisdom of God?"

Aramis laughed dryly.

"I used to be the one lecturing _you_ on living virtuously. Have we really changed that much?"

He turned to face Athos, a close to pleading expression on his face.

"No, Aramis, I do not think we have. We have matured, grown up."

"You were always grown up, Athos. And I do not think Porthos and d'Artagnan agree with you. They think I have changed."

"Well, you have always trusted my judgement more than theirs, though, have you not?"

"I have always trusted your judgement more than anyone's, Athos. Do you think I was wrong to leave?"

"It does not matter whether it was wrong or right. You did it, and you cannot change it. Do not fret."

Aramis's eyes flashed.

"I asked for your opinion, not your advice! Was I wrong to leave?"

"I do not know, Aramis", Athos's reply was solemn, quite serious and entirely honest, "Were you?"

Aramis shrugged helplessly. Athos had always been the one who could always push him into a corner. Always, no matter the circumstances. He _had_ always trusted the older man's judgement. He still did. But now Aramis himself was growing old. More than a decade older than Athos had been back then, and yet he felt that if he was somehow returned to that time he would still feel young beside Athos.

"I don't know, count", he replied sincerely, using the more formal, the more respectful, form of address out of instinct. He was bowing to Athos, again; submitting to his venerable friend's wisdom. Aramis knew quite well that he was intelligent, possibly more so than Athos, but he would never be wise.

Athos put a hand on his shoulder; a simple gesture with much meaning. A recognition of Aramis's defeat, an offering of comfort, a light weight keeping him down on earth.

"There is no fault in being sentimental, my friend", Athos said, "But do not let the past distract you from the present. You cannot change what has been, and there is no use losing yourself about it. Don't interrupt! I know you, Aramis, and if this goes on you will lose yourself. I do not doubt you ability to find yourself again, but I'd much rather you would spare yourself the pain. Your soul carries too many scars already."

A soft smile touched Aramis's lips. He had missed this, he realised. Having Athos at his side annoyed him, annoyed him in ways he could not even express, but it comforted him too. He had forgotten that his time in the musketeers had brought so much good.

He softly touched Athos's hand on his shoulder and was rewarded with a smile from the man. They understood each other at moments like these.


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